


Sea of Stars

by LadyLear



Category: Captain Harlock
Genre: Arcadia - Freeform, Captain Harlock - Freeform, F/M, Harlock - Freeform, My Youth in Arcadia, Sea of Stars, Space Pirate Captain Harlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4713236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLear/pseuds/LadyLear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Arcadia emerges from a routine, navigational IN-Skip and detects an emergency beacon from the orbit of Mars.  Captain Harlock and his crew arrive at a crumbling space station just in time to rescue the sole survivor of an unexplained catastrophe.  Strange, how the existence of one person can change the course of lives around them, for better or for worse.  A life is saved, but the repercussions of that decision may be too great to bear.  One life may irrevocably alter the course of the Arcadia and the lives of her crew, sending them hurtling toward a fate no one could anticipate.   </p>
<p>“I have no ideology, let alone any kind of faith.  I’m searching for my final resting place and the Mazone just happened to be in my way.  That’s all there is.  I just hope the battle with the Mazone will provide a final resting place that is fitting for me.”  –Captain Harlock, Space Pirate Captain Harlock, Episode 36</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phantom

_“I fight only for what I believe in... For no one's sake... Only for what's deep in my heart.”_  
–Captain Harlock, _Space Pirate Captain Harlock,_ Episode 4

* * *

 

She awoke suddenly. The screeching howl of straining metal echoed through carbon fiber walls. Sparks trickled like rain from torn pipes and loose wiring along the ceiling. Faint flashes of light briefly illuminated the destruction around her. Then, mercifully faded before her mental being could grasp the meaning of what she had seen.

The station was listing. She could feel the slow, laborious tilt beneath her. It was gradually losing its grip on its orbit. Her vision was blurred, but she could see the red surface of Mars creeping into the massive windows.

She tasted blood in her mouth. It was bitter, metallic, and all too familiar. Slowly, she turned to her side, trying to prop herself up with one arm. She felt stunned, almost drunk. The sudden movement made her dizzy, so she froze.

Her fading sense of reality clung helplessly to strands of humor. Something about a truck and being hit by it. No. She didn’t get the number on it.

Something oozed down the bridge of her nose and dripped on the floor before her. She touched her forehead and drew back blood on her fingers. She regarded it with inquisitive wonder. It was curious how it seemed black in the dimness.

She knew what was happening. No panic. No flood of adrenaline to bring her to her feet and push her forward. She understood the seriousness of the situation, but had no desire to fight it.

Concussion? Jessica thought. Hypoxia?

She could smell the smoke of fire. Something growing, burning, sucking the oxygen reserves. Its soft roar was mounting.

She was going to die, and she didn’t seem to mind.

Would it be so bad? Jessica thought. Would it be so bad just to give up? She bowed her head, staring at the glistening, black drops on the floor. I could just close my eyes, lay back, and let it happen.

She sunk to the floor, overwhelmed by exhaustion. She turned on her back to watch the sparks fall from the ceiling. They were beautiful, like falling stars. She was content to be one of them soon.

There was a faint clink of metal hardware with the familiar cadence of the human stride. The eerie howling and the roar of flames were growing ever louder, yet somehow this faint, almost hopeful sound, reached her over the din. Her feverish mind recalled the sound of spurs on cowboy boots in old westerns. She remembered watching them as a child with her father. The cheerful sound of spurs was such a contrast to the heavy footfall of a determined soul. It was something she never forgot.

The entrance to the room was ripped open. She could see metal twisted and shaped into grotesque effigies by the superheated hands of the explosion. They seemed to dance in the oscillating light of the approaching flames. The smoke was becoming thicker now. She could hardly distinguish the true human form which approached her. Only the curious, soft clinking sound forced her to look harder. It forced her to see.

It was a shadow, a faceless ghost. With the flames rising behind it, it was cold, hollow darkness. A long, ragged, black cape billowed behind it in the heated, swirling air. A tall, muscular frame slowly took shape with its approach.

Jessica caught her breath. A white skull and crossbones crudely painted across a worn leather suit emerged from the smoky haze. For the first moment since she awoke, she felt a twinge of fear. Her heart was suddenly pounding in her ears.

Brass buckles, shaped with the same symbol held threadbare, leather belts in place over lean, yet sinewy, hips. A long, silver saber hung from one; a holstered gun from the other. The buckles clinked together, catching the light, with long, confident strides.

The body moved like a predator. Slow, silent, with ominous, unpredictable intent. It was almost graceful, almost beautiful. The boots were large and dense, yet they made no sound when they connected with the floor. The shoulders were broad and determined under the weight of the heavy, flowing cloak. Only the thin, hollow clinking of brass gave away any movement.

Certainly this was him. This was Death coming to claim her. No comforting white light. No familiar faces. Only this strange creature. She was trembling.

It was standing over her. She could feel it staring down at her. Her breaths were shallow and rapid as her eyes slowly traced the length of the body, taking in each terrifying detail. She didn’t want to look into its eyes, but she knew she had to. Wavering light from the showering sparks chased the shadows from a pale, ghostly face, partially obscured by unruly, dark hair.

Her vision was tunneling. She was becoming hypoxic now. She sensed her time was running out, and she desperately searched the shadowed face to meet its eyes. A sudden electrical discharge lit up the room. The shadows flew away like frightened birds. When she finally met its eye, she found something she didn’t expect.

Was it concern? Pity?

The eye was dark, intense, almost angry, as if it had seen far too much. It was a shimmering pool of blackness, and she felt as if she would fall into it. The dark hair wafted in the thermals, revealing more of the face in the slowly fading light. The sharp angle of the clenched jaw. The subtle shape of the nose. The prominent bones of the cheeks. In her desperation, she couldn’t see the black patch over one eye, she couldn’t see the jagged scar which extended from the patch, over the bridge of the nose, across the pale cheek. She didn’t want to. She only saw the face of her dead husband.

She wanted to say his name, but she hadn’t in so long. Her body was so heavy, so weak, but she managed to extend a trembling hand. She extended her arm and reached out to it.

A gloved hand gently grasped hers and held it tight. This creature… this man, knelt down beside her. She felt him gather her broken body into his arms. He held her close to him, so she could rest her head against his chest. She felt a pounding heart beneath the painted skull. His long, thick hair brushed against her forehead. He smelled of worn leather, of exertion and perspiration. She could see his face, despite the shadows, and she felt herself smiling. She touched his hair, his cheek, with gentle, exploring fingers. The skin was hot. It glistened with sweat, even in the dimness.

So human, for a ghost…

“Have you finally come to take me home, my love?” she spoke softly. She knew she was close enough to be heard.

“Is that what you wish?” he asked. The voice was strong in return, but beautifully tender.

“I’ve missed you so…” she whispered.

With the final surge of her diminishing strength, she grasped the high collar of the cloak and pulled herself closer to him. Ever so gently, ever so sweetly, she touched her lips to his. She felt the heat of his breath, his tightening embrace, his hand in her hair. She tasted the sweetness of his skin with the salt of his perspiration.

So human… she thought before the blackness closed in.


	2. Hopelessness

  _“Combat sacrifices love, joy, sadness, even hatred. However, there is something that can be won only through a loss.”_  
–Narrator, Space Pirate Captain Harlock, Episode 28

* * *

 

Her dreams were flooded with memories of him. Intense, feverish moments in the dark. Hands clasped, bodies intertwined, embraced in passionate climax until they surrendered to blissful exhaustion. They held on to each other until the morning light crept over glistening skin.

She missed waking-up next to him, finding his lean body tangled in the sheets, his auburn hair splayed across his face and pillow. She loved watching him sleep, watching him breathe. The slow rise and fall of his chest in oblivious slumber was somehow comforting, reassuring.

Temptation would always get the best of her. She would lean over him and kiss his skin, slowly moving up his body one gentle kiss at a time, until her mouth found the deep, intoxicating warmth of his. With one broad sweep of his arm, they were under the sheets again, her body beneath the welcoming weight of his.

Every shred of her missed him. Every fiber of her being was stretched to its limit with profound, incomprehensible grief. She could not bear the thought of never touching him again.

She remembered the taste of him, even when she awoke to the jarring sound of angry voices. She opened her eyes. She could see her body. Thin, white sheets clinging to her limbs with the dampness of feverish sweat. Yet, she felt strangely detached from them, as if they were not hers.

She willed her arm to move. She lifted it until the sheet fell away, revealing a delicate, clear bandage over an intravenous access point. Her eyes followed the tubing to the half-full bag of saline hanging nearby. She recognized a small bag of antibiotic feeding into the tubing, but it didn’t explain why her body felt so weak and heavy.

She sat up, then slid her legs over the side of the bed. She let them dangle while she regained her orientation. She was dizzy to the point of nausea, but she had an instinctive need to reach out to the voices. Her feet touched the floor, one at a time. It was cold and hard. She stared at the grey surface beyond her toes until the blur in her vision receded slightly. She finally stood and balanced herself on trembling legs. The IV tubing stretched and pulled at the bandage on her arm when she tried to move forward. Without a moment’s hesitation, she pulled the restraint from her arm with a sharp yank on the tubing.

 

* * *

 

“Since when have you shied-away from taking on strays, Doc?” Harlock crossed his arms as he leaned against the counter behind him.

“Since I’ve had to ration supplies!” Doctor Zero was a short man, but it didn’t prevent him from shoving Harlock aside as he reached for something on the counter. “You should think of your own crew!” 

“I only ask you to do your best, Doc.” Harlock lifted one arm, giving the doctor more room to reach behind him. “That’s all I’ve ever asked of you.”

The little man pulled back a handful of bandages and shoved them in the container before him, then he glared as hard as he could at Harlock. “You don’t understand! I don’t want to be forced to choose!”

“You worry too much,” Harlock said calmly.

The doctor paused and stared at the sterile grey wall above the equally plain surface of the counter. He released a long sigh, not bothering to hide his frustration.

“It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?” He grumbled, almost under his breath. He opened the cabinet above him, grabbed something from it, and forcefully shoved it into the container. “You blow them apart like game-pieces, and I put them back together again! It’s just a vicious cycle!”

Harlock stared at him, taken aback by his words. The two of them had shared a journey for too many years to count. He thought they shared a vision. Spoken by anyone else, the words would have certainly resulted in an unfortunate ending by Harlock’s hand. However, these two men knew each other well. They knew which buttons to push.

Harlock was silent for a long moment, considering the doctor’s words. He took in a breath to quell the anger which rose within him. He understood. The doctor was trying to get his Captain to hear him, really hear him. He couldn’t accept a belittling pat on the back, with his concerns set aside, when lives were depending upon him. He wanted a firm promise of fresh supplies.

Harlock closed his one good eye and bowed his head. Before he made that promise, he wanted to make his own clarification. “It’s never been easy for me, Doc,” he said firmly. “Never.”

The doctor stared down at the container before him. He seemed to regret his words. “I…”

“I will get your supplies, Doctor.” Harlock spoke before the man could say more. Harlock sensed an apology coming, but the obvious remorse was enough. “You have my word.”

The doctor met Harlock’s eye and nodded. The little man backed down his step ladder with the container, turning just in time to see his newest patient clinging haphazardly to the door frame of her room.

Harlock uncrossed his arms and stood up straight. Exhausted blue eyes stared through unkempt strands of long, blond hair, still stained with patches of dried blood.

Her body was frail. She trembled, as if she would collapse into a heap at any moment. However, when her eyes met Harlock’s, her shoulders lifted, as if some enormous weight had been removed. Her face, so white and pale, slowly flushed with color. Her eyes sharpened, as if there was renewed strength in them. They seemed to catch the light of the room, but they were luminous, as if they made their own light.

Harlock caught his breath, feeling as if he witnessed a resurrection of the dead. He was transfixed by the softness of her expression, the blissful happiness which radiated from her. His dark presence evoked intimidation and fear in those he confronted. Never had he inspired such stunning emotion in another.

The doctor placed his container aside and moved toward her, but the young woman didn’t seem to see him. Her eyes never left Harlock’s, even as she stumbled forward. Harlock stepped toward her and reached for her, offering the strength and support of his arms.

Instead of accepting his hands, the young woman threw her arms around his neck.

He didn’t move. He didn’t pull away. He was inexplicably frozen in her embrace. The moment was brief, ephemeral, but shockingly intimate and beautifully eternal. The seconds seemed to crawl by, allowing him to somehow cling to tiny, striking details. Her delicate, thin body pressed against his, the warm, feverish skin of her cheek against his face, her soft, desperate breath rushing over his ear. She held him like a long, lost lover, and it pulled at thin shreds of his memories.

Memories of his vulnerabilities.

Memories of his human frailties.

Exquisite chills ran through him as her fingers moved gently over his face and through his hair. He sensed a deep sincerity in this woman, an openness, and a purity. Barriers within him shattered, and turned to dust. For that brief span of seconds, he wanted to be what she needed. He wanted to be what she thought he was. He closed his eye and gave himself up to the vulnerable feelings rising within, silently wishing for the power over time. He ached to stay in that moment forever.

Long forgotten fibers of instinct drove him to desire. He wanted to embrace her in return. He wanted to kiss her. He never had a moment such as this. He had never been missed like this. Something deep inside of him was in awe of such profound intimacy. He almost forgot himself, moving his hand to touch her, but he stopped. At the furthest edges of his soul, deep in the rational part of him, he knew this moment belonged to someone else.

He felt her pull back from him. She suddenly caught her breath. He opened his eye, locking gazes with her. They were suspended in a moment of cold, mutual clarity.

Her eyes traced the hard lines of his face. It was as if she saw him for the first time. The black patch, hiding the vacant space, which was once his right eye. The jagged scar over his nose, across his left cheek. The disbelief etched upon her face was more familiar to him. It was almost like greeting an old friend, but this friend was not welcome.

She grasped at his flight suit, clinging to him for support. Her strength seemed to bleed out with each second of harsh reality. Her tortured expressions read like a book: shock, disappointment, regret. Finally, unmistakable sorrow.

Her body seemed to shrink from him. He extended his arm to her, offering his support for her unsteady retreat should she fall, but he would not touch her. She gave in to the doctor’s hands as they pulled at her and she let him lead her away, but she never took her eyes from Harlock.

Harlock felt his own expression melt into painful remorse as he gravely shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, almost mouthing the words to her.

She finally looked away from him, but not before he saw the light within her eyes flutter and die. She collapsed onto her bed, like a rag-doll, as if every stitch of fortitude had been ripped away from her. Gently, but firmly, she pulled her arm from the doctor, refusing his inspection of the bleeding IV site. She turned her back to them, pulling her legs to her chest.

The doctor looked back at Harlock and their eyes met. They understood the same thing. She wanted to be left alone.

“What have I done?” Harlock whispered to himself.


	3. Mimay

_“When I lived on Jura, I thought it would be fine if all the corrupt Jurans were to die. But I should not have thought such a thing. Now that I know for certain that none of my kind remains, I understand all too well. Never become alone. Even to have a hated enemy is better. To be left with no one is so sorrowful… so lonely…”_

–Mimay, _Space Pirate Captain Harlock_ , Episode 21

* * *

 

Mimay knew Harlock. Like Tochiro Oyama knew the ship he built, his beloved Arcadia, Mimay knew the man she pledged her life to. She knew his mind. His analytical tendencies. The values at his core. She often anticipated his decisions, but she would never admit that to him.

Once, in a very long while, she could even claim to know his heart.

The depth of human emotion was foreign to the Juran race, but in her many years with Harlock as her guide, she learned to navigate the turbulence, to understand the impact of human emotion on human actions. She saw human emotion in radiating colors, like auras. She found these cues to be more reliable than human expression. Because only she could see them, they could not be easily masked.

Harlock was different. He had a sense of control. Rarely did emotion bubble forth from his stoic facade. He suppressed his emotions so well, his color appeared pale, lifeless, and gray. It was completely unique to him. He became a master of cold calculation, and he could easily rattle his enemies with his icy determination. Mimay however, still sensed something raging beneath the surface, anger perhaps, or grief.

Mimay’s education regarding human nature was fulfilled by frequent philosophical conversations between the two of them in the captain’s quarters. A much younger Harlock confessed emotions were a nuisance to him. They were a dangerous weakness. They clouded the mind and dulled the decisiveness he needed to protect his crew and fulfill his mission. Mimay gently countered with a different perspective.

Although she struggled to understand them, she considered emotions a beautiful part of the human condition. The force behind them, and how it was harnessed in times of darkness, was unique to his species. Emotions could certainly be dangerous, but just like any poorly understood source of power, they could be so much more.

She admired his undying love for Earth. She had watched him fight through pain, hunger, and numbing fatigue. He had inspired his crew to do the same. It was his great compassion which saved her from death. Without his passion, without his rage, could he hope to do more? Could he be the man he was without those emotions?

She recalled Harlock’s reaction. He did not reply with words. He seemed to know he didn’t need to. Mimay could sense his peaceful satisfaction with her answer. He took a sip from his glass of red wine and stared out the windows at his sea of stars.

Mimay knew Harlock. Mimay knew the man she pledged her life to, but she could not read his mind.

A drastic change in him was apparent as soon as he entered the captain’s quarters. For the first time since she had known him, the lifeless gray of his color was swirling, as if it wanted to change. She did not completely understand what had transpired to unsettle him so. For her, the cause itself was not as important as the resulting state of the being.

All she knew was that something had split him open and laid him bare on the sand. She could see into him now, as if he were transparent. His defenses were down, and he was painfully raw and exposed. She could tread where barriers once stood.

Mimay didn’t need to see him to recognize his anxiety. He was so rarely unnerved. When it did occur, it resonated to her like distant waves of sound, or vibrations in the walls of the ship. She had prepared a glass of wine for him. It waited for him at his desk.

He regarded the glass for a moment. Hesitating, he caught his reflection on the surface of the wine. Seemingly dissatisfied, he double-tapped his knuckle on the desk and snatched it up without spilling a drop. He threw his head back and drained the wine quickly.

Mimay studied him silently from the massive leather chair on the other side of the desk.

Harlock grabbed the wine bottle and hastily poured himself another glass. Mimay stood and placed a delicate finger on the rim of the glass before he could lift it. He looked at her, as if waiting for her to speak. His word came first.

“Don’t!” He pulled the glass away and commenced to drain it even faster than the first. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned his back on her, as if he could somehow hide his rashness. She approached him slowly, calmly dragging the tips of her delicate fingers over the surface of the desk. The wine was blunting his inner turmoil, and settling his color back to its lifeless gray. She briefly wondered if gray was what was best for him.

Mimay touched his arm. She could understand him better if she could touch him. He stepped away from her. He wasn’t ready to give himself over to her.

“I want you to go!” he said harshly, throwing a searing glance over his shoulder.

Mimay paused, maintaining her silence.

“Get out!” He turned suddenly and smashed his glass against his desk. The aura around him burst forth with a fiery red, then slowly faded to gray again.

The momentary change peaked her curiosity, but Mimay didn’t react. She didn’t respond to his demand with words. Words were useless in the midst of a storm, and she and Harlock had danced these same steps many times before. She calmly moved to another chair in the room and sat down.

He was testing her, testing her resolve, her faith. He was pushing her away, but desperately hoping, despite his weakness and rage, she would choose to stay. Even through the shroud of his dark, angry aura, she could see wisps of what he needed.

She did not know how to be disparaging. She saw no advantage in lies or manipulation. Thus, she won Harlock’s trust over time. She was the only one to ever witness these momentary lapses of self-control. He was hard on himself. His intentions were pure, but his mistakes could be costly. He cursed himself in brooding, solitude for those mistakes. She never spoke of this to other crew members. Doubt or weakness, of any kind, in the presence of his crew could be dangerous.

He leaned against the desk with a long sigh. Then, he pushed a tired hand through his thick, dark hair. With the movement, the shadows momentarily receded from his face. Faint light, touched pale skin.

Signs the storm is abating, Mimay observed.

“It was selfish,” he finally said. He lifted his head just enough to see his reflection, warped and broken, in the divided windows behind his desk. She silently wondered what that said to him.

“It was human,” she replied, because she sensed he was ready to hear her words.

“I took something from her,” he bowed his head again.

Mimay was overwhelmed by his feeling of shame, and the injustice of it angered her. “You took what you needed.”

“It was wrong!”

“Who judges you?”

He placed his hand over his chest, emphasizing his words. “I am the judge!”

She paused and tilted her head, attempting to grasp his meaning. Finally, she replied with gentle words, “The judge is too harsh.”

“The judge should’ve known!” The anger was fading in his voice. He grabbed the bottle of wine by its neck and dropped hard into his ornate, leather chair. He sank into it, slouching as if the weight on his shoulders was too great to endure.

Mimay understood there were things that were uniquely human. Situations she would never completely understand. She could only calm him with her presence, her voice, and her words.

He confessed to her, long ago, what he feared to be his eternal curse; to achieve change, he must do harm and he must take lives. As much as he struggled to change the rules of his game, she knew he was right.

The difference between the heart, the conductive lump of muscle in the chest of every human, and the soul, the metaphysical presence spoken of in human music and poetry, was a difficult concept for her to grasp. That is, until that very moment.

Stripped of his defenses, cut open, and laid bare, she could see a light within him, one which she had not noticed before. It was so very dim and weak in the haze of his deadened, gray cast. It had certainly weathered the cruel winds of his curse, but it somehow still burned.

Jurans did not possess an expressive mouth, like humans, but if Mimay had one, she would have smiled. There was still a soul within this cold flesh, and when there was still a soul, there was still hope.

“What is your wish for her?” she asked softly.

“I wish for her to live,” he replied, then he took a long drink from the bottle.

“If your wish is different from hers?”

He shook his head meekly. His next words trembled. Thus, they were only a whisper. “It doesn’t matter. I want her to live.”


	4. Harlock

_“Why can’t you accept it, Daiba? This life of wandering, searching for a place to die?”_

–Captain Harlock, _Space Pirate Captain Harlock_ , Episode 8

* * *

 

The wind was a distant calling. It was calling him by a name he couldn’t pronounce. A name, which he knew from memories too old to recall, but the name was still familiar.

The wind was urging him. No. It was daring him.

“You feel that, don’t you?” came a gentle voice. It was familiar and calming, as if it knew him almost as well as the wind.

The blackness was suddenly lifted away. The sky was spread out before him. Infinite azure all around him. He was perched on the leather-bound forearm of a beautiful woman. Her hair was the color of dried wheat. Her eyes resembled the cloudless sky around them, and they looked upon him with loving admiration. His strong talons held fast. He balanced with her movements, shifting, and raising his wings only slightly to secure his grip on his host. It felt natural, as if they had walked miles together this way.

The wind blew over him. It seemed to blow through him. It touched him like it knew him in ways he could not fathom. His skin tingled like never before, making him restless. He felt light, almost weightless, as if the wind would gently lift him and hold him suspended.

The woman smiled broadly and raised him high, over her head, with her arm. He caught the wind beneath his wings and, with hesitation, he let them spread open.

That strange tingling again. He didn’t understand it, but it felt good!

She lowered her arm and he felt the pressure of lift beneath his wings. He flapped them hard, feeling the raw power of muscle and sinew at work. His body lifted. His talons pulled at the leather. Yet, he would not leave the company of his host. She repeated the motions, allowing him to gain confidence with these strange, lofty appendages.

She pulled him close for a moment and gently stroked the feathers on his breast with a delicate finger. “Your soul belongs to no one!” she said softly. “It’s time!”

With one, swift motion, she thrust him into the open sky. He rode the momentum into the air and released his grip with perfect timing. He spread his massive wings to their full length, catching a gust of wind.

He opened his eyes, suddenly. The fine, crystal chandelier, hanging in the center of the high, vaulted ceiling of the captain’s quarters, swayed gently with the constant movement of the ship. It shimmered in scattered rays of dim starlight, streaming through the massive windows which lined the back wall of the room. He was laying on his back, staring up at it.

The dream was the same, he thought. Always the same.

It was comforting in that way. Since he was young, the dream visited him in times of great hardship. Because of it, he knew the winds of Earth differently than other men. He did not try to control them. He was content to drift with them, to fill his sails with them, to go where they asked.

Because of it, he knew the skies of Earth differently than other men. He was always more at home there. He loved his Earth, beyond measure. Yet he could not find solace in the absolute firmness of the ground. The ground did not move. It did not sway. It did not breathe. It felt strange to him, as if he were completely foreign to it.

Aboard the Arcadia, he was rocked by its gentle sway as it moved through space. He fell asleep each night to its lullaby, the faint creaking of the hand-carved, antique mahogany in his state room. He listened to it, as he stared at the glittering chandelier above him. The rhythmic sound assured him, without words, that all was well.

He knew the woman in his dream without knowing her name, and he ached to hear her voice in times of profound silence. Her words, “Your soul belongs to no one!” resonated through him. They were soft vibrations that sent chills through him, even now. He knew her love was different. It was not a love of bitter confinement or jealous possession. It was much greater, much stronger than that. It was love that was capable of letting go.

He silently searched for her in the faces of those he met. He searched for that familiar loving admiration in the eyes of strangers, but of course, he found only apprehension and fear. Who or what she was mattered less to him as he aged. She was a constant companion. A guiding, benevolent light in his head and in his heart. He imagined she knew and accepted him beyond anyone, even Mimay, because she knew him as a human being. He was content to die, never knowing her name, but only if she continued to return to him in his dreams while he lived.

He could smell the wine. An empty bottle lay next to his outstretched arm. He had made it to his bed from his desk, but he only sat on the edge and laid back. His feet never left the ground.

He sat up slowly. His head pounded. No matter. He was used to it. He looked around the room as he rubbed the sleep from his face. He was alone. Mimay must have stayed with him until he finally slept.

He slowly rose to his feet. It was time to get to the bridge. They needed to get their bearings. For the first time, it seemed, they were lost in his sea of stars. In their own solar system no less.

 

* * *

 

Mimay carried a tray of food to the medical bay from the galley. The soup was a hot, simple broth. The bread was fresh and warm. The smell of it was even pleasant to her. Masu, the ships cook, assured her this would be tempting to any human.

She entered the medical bay to find the doctor crouched over his microscope. Another untouched tray of food sat near him on the counter. That morning’s breakfast was now cold. Mimay noted she would have to dispose of the food before returning the utensils to the galley. Masu was so easily enraged by complaints about her cooking. She would certainly see the complete rejection of her work by a stranger as an insult.

The doctor heard her behind him and glanced at her over his shoulder. “It smells good!”

“Nothing this morning?” Mimay looked at the old tray of food.

The doctor sighed. He didn’t bother to hide is frustration, but he kept his back to her as he rubbed his eyes. “I can bind her wounds. I can keep her warm. I can fill her to the brim with antibiotics. I can’t make her eat.”

Mimay touched his shoulder to comfort him. “I will visit with her.”

“Perhaps it’s time,” he replied. Mimay had kept her distance to minimize the newcomer’s stress. She had certainly never encountered a Juran before. The work of accepting the presence of a different sentient being could compromise an already weakened state. The young woman was physically stable now, but she was unresponsive to inquiries or even gentle urges to eat. “I even threatened her with a feeding tube, but you know I don’t want to do that.”

“We must accept her choice, Doctor, whether we agree with it or not. Everyone chooses their fate on this ship.”

“Then, why? Why bring her aboard? Why waste resources on her if she just wants to die? I don’t understand!”

“I believe Harlock saw something in her. I know his mind, but his heart is still a mystery. I leave it as such. Perhaps he saw a choice for her that she could not see for herself. If so, we must help her see that choice. Yes?”

The doctor sighed again, turning to her. “I don’t easily give up on my patients. I don’t want to appear to do so, but she has made me powerless!”

“And that has made you angry.” Mimay said it for him because she knew he couldn’t.

“I can restore blood and bone! I can piece together what’s broken! How can I restore a will to live?”

“The Arcadia has always been a refuge for lost souls, Doctor Zero. There is no soul more lost then one that grieves without end. Grief may win. It can be unrelenting. However, Harlock has never backed down from a worthy fight. Neither have you, Doctor.”

The doctor smiled at her. He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck as he always did when he spent too much time at the microscope. He had no argument in response. She sensed he liked her words.

“Well,” the doctor huffed, as he turned back to his microscope, “I don’t have to like it.”

“No.” Mimay patted his back. “You don’t have to like it.”

 

* * *

 

The young woman had been moved to a solitary room, in a quiet corner of the med bay. The lights were dimmed when Mimay entered. The young girl’s back was to her. She was laying on her side. Whether awake or sleeping, it was said she rarely moved from that position. Although she silently protested her treatment in the beginning, she finally resigned herself to Doctor Zero’s assessments and basic care. He even managed to establish another I.V.

Mimay could move quietly when she wanted, but not this time. She didn’t want to startle the young woman. She walked around the bed, to the side the woman was facing, and placed the tray on a table near the head of her bed. She allowed it to drop a little from her fingers. The utensils made a soft clank. However, the woman did not stir.

Mimay regarded the woman in silence. Her small, delicate frame was almost engulfed by layers of blankets. Obviously, Dr. Zero’s attempts to keep her warm. Although she had hardly moved from her bed since her arrival, her eyes were sunken and dark with fatigue.

This is not physical fatigue, Mimay thought, and she was undeniably curious. Never had she had the opportunity to see such depths of emotion, or their physical manifestations so closely. She had seen fear and terror. The last bit of sentiment before a soul passed on. Yet, those encounters were so brief. They were like a spark, igniting a flash, leading to an explosion, which sucked away the oxygen and every bit of evidence of its existence.

The woman’s aura was a solid blue. There was no movement in it, which was strange for the human auras she had encountered. They were always moving. Always unsettled. This one was so dark and blue, it was almost black. It wanted to swallow this girl, it seemed. It was biding its time. Waiting for the girl’s last bit of strength to bleed away.

It will not be that easy, Mimay thought. Not for this one.

Within the blue haze, there was a light. It was similar to what she finally saw within Harlock. However, this light burned hard. It burned steady. It did not waver or flutter in uncertainty. She placed a gentle hand upon the woman’s head.

Images came with sensations, one after the other. A tall, striking man, with hazel eyes and dark, auburn hair, smiled in her mind. He evoked a feeling of love, safety, and certainty. She felt his arms around her, the unique sheltering warmth and sincerity of a human embrace. It was followed by the ache of being without it, of missing it. What was once comfort to this woman, was now her source of pain.

She could see men in uniforms standing at the end of a long, dark hallway. She felt a nauseating chill as their eyes met hers and they began to walk toward her. Their footsteps echoed, drowning out everything around her. She knew what they were. She knew what they would say.

Mimay was suddenly aware of an overpowering weakness in her own legs. She could no longer stand. She knelt to the floor beside the woman’s bed, instinctively brushing the hair from the woman’s pale, cool face.

Despair was so powerful. It was selfish, treacherous and relentless.

The woman’s tired, sunken eyes finally opened. After a moment, they focused on Mimay. There was no shock or fear in her. At first, Mimay thought fatigue had made her too weak for such reactions. It was something else. Mimay sensed the warmth of acceptance in her, a kind of relief, as if she was finally at the end of a long journey.

Images came to Mimay again, but these were faint, undefined, like impressions. Silvery, ethereal beings of white light. Benevolent gatherers of souls. It was something Mimay remembered from human mythology. Mimay’s porcelain skin was constantly luminescent. The subtle glow was more pronounced in the darkness of the room. The woman’s mistake was understandable and not completely unappreciated by Mimay.

“No, my sweet child,” she whispered softly, “I am no angel!” She brushed the woman’s face with her fingers again, hoping to stir her to reality. “And you are still alive!”

Tears flowed from faded blue eyes. The silence of the room was so encompassing, Mimay could hear them strike the pillow. She felt the depths of the woman’s disappointment.

“I know you wonder why,” Mimay whispered. “That is an answer you must find for yourself. You were saved! It may not seem that way, but it’s the truth! You will find a reason for it, and you will live. You will live, because there are others that have hope for you. Even when you have none for yourself.”

The woman pulled away from Mimay’s touch, sinking further into the covers, like an obstinate child. Mimay knew she wasn’t ready for those words, but she sensed the woman was only growing weaker and they were both running out of time.

Mimay pulled the covers away with a hard jerk. “Everyone has lost something here!” The billowing sheets settled at the foot of the bed, leaving the young woman exposed in only her thin, white gown.

The girl glared at her, projecting all the anger she could muster. Her aura churned with hints of red, and Mimay was encouraged by the reaction. Anger, no matter how weak, was better than no reaction at all.

“My people are gone,” she said pragmatically. “I am all that remains of them.”

Mimay forced her own sorrow into the woman, like a sharp blade into her side. Memories of desolate ruins where civilizations once stood. Burning skeletons of tall buildings rising into a sky choked with thick, black smoke. Bodies of loved ones strewn and broken in the rubble. A planet, a home, devoid of life, except for her. The realization of being completely and utterly alone.

“I will travel this vastness for the rest of my existence and never see another of my kind,” her whisper grated with harshness.

The human covered her face with her hands and sobbed silently. Mimay felt her torment, her profound empathy for her. She felt the woman’s shame for her own grief. The human was frightened and confused. She simply couldn’t fathom how Mimay survived such a loss.

Mimay regretted her harshness. She pulled the woman’s hand away from her face and grasped it. She gently stroked the woman’s tangled hair with the other. “Do not despair,” she whispered, and in her attempt to undo the crushing damage, she gave the young woman a precious memory. A memory, which she had never shared with any other, not even Harlock.

She was in the sheltering arms of a young human, with unruly, dark hair. She had resigned herself to die, and she was content to do so. However, the human stared down at her with bright, desperate eyes.

The eyes are the windows to the soul, she thought. She learned this proverb from human culture, but she experienced its meaning for the first time in that moment.

Juran’s eyes were solid, with no pupil or iris. In her failing state, this being’s eyes were a curiosity. They had mesmerizing color and depth. Looking into them, she felt something powerful. It was something which refused to let her leave him. Before she learned to read and understand human emotions in colors, auras, and vibrations, this was her diminutive connection to what she would later define as the human soul.

“Someone had hope for me,” she whispered softly. “I survived, because someone had hope.”

Mimay never quite understood why her words seemed to resonate in the human heart. Sometimes, it simply didn’t matter. She found purpose with it, and she could be content with that. She retrieved the cup of broth from the tray. The woman slowly pulled herself up.

Satisfaction, Mimay thought. That’s what humans call it. She was referring to the sensation within her, as she watched the young woman lean forward and timidly take her first sip from the cup in Mimay’s hands.


	5. Torchiro

Sea of Stars – Chapter 5 – Torchiro

 _“Ships are the nearest things to dreams that hands have ever made, for somewhere deep in their oaken hearts the soul of a song is laid.”_  
~Robert N. Rose

* * *

Her body ached. She was aware it was a common complaint of post-traumatic depression. Although she wanted to, she couldn’t give into her fatigue anymore. There were expectations now.

Doctor Zero covered her bandaged wounds with plastic shielding. The cut on her forehead was healed enough withstand a hot shower he said. He gently led her to the infirmary’s small, private bathroom, and she clenched her jaw as she limped into a cloud of steam. She was trying to regain her faculties and her sharpness, thus she refused the doctor’s offers of pain medication. The gash in her leg, now repaired, still stung with each step.

The doctor had carefully laid out what she needed. She found shampoo, brushes and combs, mouthwash, toothpaste, and a toothbrush; even a conditioner to detangle her long hair. She glanced over her shoulder as he closed the door, wondering if the man had ever been married, or if he was just simply considerate. She lifted the bar of soap to her nose and sniffed it.

Lilacs? she thought, and caught herself smiling. Scented soaps were such a luxury in the world she knew.

She moved slowly, lifting the thin, white gown over her head. The rancid smell of smoke from chemical and electrical fires lingered on her, and she was anxious to be free of it.

The bruises are blooming nicely, she thought, as she inspected the marks on her skin, each in various stages of red, purple, and black. One in particular held her attention; a solid mass of purple flesh across her hip bone. She vaguely recalled being swept up by an explosion. She didn’t remember the landing, but judging from the bruise, it must have been less than graceful.

She allowed herself only a few moments at the mirror. ‘Death, warmed-over’ came to mind. Tiny, black bits of ash still clung in her hair with the scaling patches of dried blood. Her pale skin seemed to emphasize the hollowness of her eyes, which were nearly swollen shut from her tears.

There was no diminishing the older bruise, partially encircling her right eye. She touched the skin with a tentative finger, purple fading to black. She winced when she pressed too hard. It was the losing bequest of a heated exchange with someone much larger and much stronger than her.

She remembered the sound. The back of his hand connecting with her face. She thought her head would explode.

She finally looked away. Survival is an ugly business, she thought. Recovery is absolutely hideous.

The running water pattered against a small wooden stool in the shower stall. She shoved the stool aside with an unsteady leg, then slid down the wall to sit on the cool tile. She pulled her knees to her chest like a small child and allowed the hot water to run over her. With her forehead resting on her knees, she watched the last traces of her dried blood drain away.

It was never death that frightened her. She knew death intimately. Death was a welcome reprieve from her grief. She dreaded only the physical pain that went along with the transition. It couldn’t be any worse than the throbbing she was experiencing now. If she could somehow overcome that, she could find a way to pull her own trigger.

It was a strange comfort, knowing she had nothing left. Whoever these people were… Whatever it was they wanted… They were too late…

 

* * *

 

His chest broadened slightly as he walked these familiar halls. Despite the aching of his head, he straightened his spine, feeling the fullness of his formidable height. His footsteps echoed against the walls, familiar and fleeting, announcing his arrival on the bridge before he appeared to the crew.

This place, the bridge of the Arcadia, gave him strength. It was his sanctuary. No matter his physical ills or the weight of his responsibilities outside the boundaries of its walls, he somehow found a transient moment of peace and a focus which was unique to this place. It brought him back, again and again, like clockwork.

He often wondered if Torchiro knew this. The little man’s decision to place him at the helm of his final masterpiece was not always clear to Harlock. Yet, Harlock was eternally grateful to him, his oldest and most trusted friend. To command such power, with the freedom to choose his own path… was Torchiro’s priceless gift.

With each step toward the helm, his aches diminished. His fatigue drained away, like water from an overturned glass. Everything was clear at the helm. Simple. Stay afloat. Protect the crew.

Kei was already looking for him when the massive fire-doors slowly slid from his path. “Captain, I’m sorry to bother you!” She came to him with a glowing tablet in her hands, meeting him at the helm. “I’m just not sure what to make of this!” She pointed at lines of numbers on the tablet. “I thought it was a mistake! We’ve been trying to ping navigation buoys for hours now! I’ve pinged seven so far and nothing! We’re not getting any chatter over the comms either!”

Yatteran fiddled with his ever-present plastic model, then glanced back at the Captain. “I scanned the Mars atmosphere and completed an analyses of the composition. Not a stitch of terra-forming! What’s up with that?”

“I hailed some of the mining colonies!” Kei continued. “Nothing! It’s like everyone…” She hesitated as if she was searching for the right words. “It’s like everyone has disappeared!”

“So… we’re not lost.” Harlock answered slowly, and gave her a sidelong look, “Everyone else is gone.”

Kei pursed her lips. She seemed to sense how ridiculous she sounded and quickly anticipated his next order, “The crew is already double-checking the comm system. I’ll have them go over the sensors too.”

“Send someone outside to check the antennas first,” Harlock rested his hand on the immense, wooden ship’s wheel at the helm. It squeaked under the weight of his hand, “We may have sheered one during our encounter with the Mars station. It could be as simple as that.”

Kei nodded and Harlock watched the distance in her eyes as she drifted into that analytical part of her brain. He knew she hadn’t considered the external antennas on the ship. They were so small and reliable. She was already reallocating assigned resources in her head with the efficiency of any formally trained naval officer. She returned to her station, slowly. Harlock had been there. It was sometimes difficult to think that critically and walk at the same time.

Harlock felt the raw surface of the wooden wheel beneath his bare hands. Unless warranted by an impending conflict, he left his gloves tucked in his belt. The pegs of the wheel, at 11 o’clock and 2 o’clock, were polished slick from his tight, shifting grasp in battle. The rest of its surface was raw and gnarled to the touch. He liked the feel of it. The contrast of rough and smooth. The perfection of its imperfection. It was a reminder. Something natural, Earth-made, standing solitary within a world completely man-made.

“Kei,” Harlock began as an afterthought, but he met her eyes when she looked at him. “Our situational awareness is a priority over the data purge from the station. I’d like to know who our guest is, but Mimay seems certain she’s not an immediate threat to us.”

“Right,” Kei acknowledged and turned back to her station.

Harlock’s eye made a quick scan of the bridge, “Where’s Daiba?”

“He wasn’t looking very good,” Kei said absently as she focused on the monitors in front of her, watching lines of data list before her. “I sent him back to his cabin for some rest. I can handle this.”

Harlock felt his understated smile creep across his lips. He never questioned her abilities, but she always seemed to be trying to prove herself. “Yes, Kei. I know you can,” he said more to himself than to her. “Let Daiba know. It’s not mandatory, but I think he may be interested in the EVA.”

 

* * *

 

These people... Strange. Their words... Strange. Their taste in clothing… Creepy.

Her eyes traced over the modest infirmary as she limped through the washroom door. She finally managed to comb through the stubborn tangles of her hair. It must have taken longer than she thought.

She heard the doctor’s audible snore from behind one of the curtains. The room was empty and dim.

She was glad to have a few moments to herself so she could absorb the details around her. Although the infirmary appeared tidy, she opened her first cabinet door only to have the contents spill out onto the counter before her.

She glanced over her shoulder. The doctor could still be heard snoring beyond the privacy curtains. She grabbed a handful of plastic covered items, bandages, gloves, and masks and shoved them back into cabinet.

She hesitated with the next handful, noticing insignias from different organizations on each package. She rubbed one of her eyes, attempting to clear the blur as she carefully scrutinized the tiny symbols. She didn’t recognize any of them. She expected to find something military. Military ships used military supplies.

Something flashed in her memory, from brief moments of consciousness when she was rescued. An insignia, on the side of the ship. A skull and crossbones. She remembered it, because it was frightening to her. Wasn’t that an ancient symbol of… piracy?

She dismissed her findings on the packaging with a curt shake of her head and shoved the rest of the supplies into the cabinet, making yet another unorganized pile of them. She pushed the pile back just enough to quietly close the cabinet door.

She checked other cabinets, overhead, and below the counter, taking note of inventory. She found what she thought was a portable defibrillation unit. A red, wheeled box with multiple drawers appeared to be the crash cart. It was locked into the wall with spring-loaded clips; protection against sudden weightlessness she imagined.

She noted five beds with privacy curtains in the receiving room; a good set-up for observing several patients at a time while receiving others. With stretchers, she estimated the receiving room was large enough to safely support at least eight critically wounded. It could handle ten in a pinch, depending upon personnel, and if they used the floor.

If they were using the field hospital ratios and protocols she was familiar with, she could estimate a relatively sizable population on the ship. Perhaps a hundred or more? At the very least, the infirmary was capable of supporting a number of refugees, if properly supplied.

That was what bothered her. Had the doctor fallen down on his duty to manage the restocking of his supplies? Did he not have personnel assigned with this task?

She drew from her cloudy memory again. It was always the doctor which tended to her, or the strange, glow-in-the-dark woman. She hadn’t encountered anyone resembling medical staff. Of course, they could have isolated her from the rest of the crew. However, with the doctor snoring in the next room, and no escort waiting for her outside the lavatory, it seemed they weren’t overly concerned with her.

Wandering, with only her thoughts for company, she suddenly found herself in the surgical theater; now sitting dormant. It was easily recognizable by its massive, adjustable, overhanging lights. It was an impressive, circular room with an observation deck overhead, enclosed in glass. It rivaled any modern surgical theater she remembered from her readings.

She touched the adjustable bed at the center of the room, inspecting its control panel. Monitors hung from long, mechanical arms attached to the ceiling, like the lights. She then turned to other equipment, secured against the wall like the crash cart in the receiving room. She turned slowly in place, her eyes tracing the details of her surroundings until they came to rest upon the entrance.

She gasped in surprise, at the small silhouette standing in the doorway. She could hardly make out a human form. It was wrapped in a dark, ruddy cloak. The threadbare edge of the cloak swept the floor. The face was hidden beneath a rugged, wide-brimmed hat, mottled with holes.

Bullet holes? she thought, as she tilted her head in nagging curiosity.

She turned her body to face him, awkward and slow in her movements. The wide brim of the hat lifted slowly to reveal a pleasant, toothy grin beneath a pair of shiny, oval glasses.

She had promised herself, for her own protection, she would not utter a word to anyone aboard the ship. Thus, she managed a hesitant smile to the little man, but no greeting or apology for snooping.

He didn’t seem to mind. He simply turned away from her and disappeared from the entrance.

She limped toward the entrance and leaned against the door frame, resting. She watched him meander silently down the dark hallway, allowing some distance to grow between them, as she caught her breath. When he turned a corner, and ventured out of her sight again, she decided to follow him.

She was achy, and very tired, but she had been sleeping for so long. Any curiosity to occupy her mind was better than returning to her bed to lie awake in silent wonder.

He wasn’t in the receiving room when she finally made it down the hall. She suspected he left the infirmary, and she limped toward what she assumed was the exit. She found him wandering slowly down the long, dark hallway when the infirmary doors slid open. He didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. Although she was hesitant to leave familiar surroundings, something prompted her to keep following him.

 

* * *

 

Diaba leaned against the wall with one hand, staring down at the floor of the airlock. He couldn’t seem to shake the fatigue. The space suit was clunky and uncomfortable, but it felt so much heavier and more claustrophobic than usual. It probably wasn’t the best idea to volunteer for external ship maintenance, feeling the way he did, but he couldn’t help himself. Any opportunity to break up the monotony of a long voyage was welcome.

He was relieved when he finally managed to extricate himself from the restrictive suit. He was so hot. He felt beads of sweat creep down his face and his back. A moment later, when a stale breeze from the ventilation system swept over him, he was shivering. He bent over to retrieve the suit gloves from the floor, where he had dropped them, but a dizzy spell nearly laid him flat.  
That’s not good, he thought, as he gathered his wits about him. Maybe I should go lay down.

He would worry about the gloves later. He grabbed the hefty suit by its handles and drug it out of the airlock. He needed to get it stowed. Halfway to the suit’s rack, he set the bulky monstrosity down on the floor and leaned on his legs to catch his breath. He could usually lift the thing and stow it without a second thought... He must be getting worse.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and suddenly stood up straight. The young woman from the Mars base was standing at the fire doors. Her thin, white gown moved gently in the artificial breeze of the ventilation system, billowing out from behind the door frame. She seemed unsteady herself, pressed against the wall for support. She gazed at him, around the edge of the door, over her delicate hand, seeming to find some comfort in hiding most of her body behind the wall.

“Should you be here?” he said loudly, and his voice reverberated through the massive emptiness of the room.

She didn’t respond. She simply stared at him in the silence. Her eyes were wide and curious. He knew she was making a study of him.

“You should get back to the infirmary. It’s not safe for you to wander around by yourself.” He paused, placing his hands on his hips while awaiting a response, or at least an indication she heard him.

She was still.

He took a step toward her, then stopped. “Can you find your way back? Do you need help?”

She suddenly lifted a long, thin arm and pointed. Her hand trembled in the air.

He furrowed his brow in confusion, until he realized, she wasn’t pointing at him. It was the tiny hiss which was steadily growing behind him. He jerked around suddenly, forgetting his dizziness. He nearly fell over himself.

His eyes widened in terror when they found the handheld, laser, cutting tool on the floor. He suddenly realized his fundamental, rookie mistake and silently cursed himself for it. He hadn’t engaged the safety.

He must have dropped it while moving the suit and the fall engaged the laser. His eyes followed the thin, red beam of light, where it concentrated on the surface of a conduit snaking across the ceiling. A conduit labeled, ‘high-pressure’ and ‘flammable’.

“Oh, sh…” was all he could utter.

 _If I don’t die, Harlock’s going to kill me!_ Those were his last thoughts, as a massive shockwave drove him hard into the floor, and into darkness.


	6. Sharp Edges

 

* * *

_I will not be made useless,_  
_I won't be idled with despair._  
_I will gather myself around my faith,_  
_For light does the darkness most fear…_  
~ “Hands”, Jewel

* * *

 

 

She crawled to him, on her hands and knees, from her shelter behind the fire doors. She crawled to him through a maze of hot, burning debris.

Tiny bits of fiery wreckage drifted down like snow. It was all that illuminated her path, until the emergency lighting kicked in.

She could feel the listing, the mass of the ship reacting to the force of the explosion. It was turning to its side. It felt like she was crawling uphill, but she kept going.

She sprawled to the floor, fearfully throwing her arms over her head, when the secondary explosions began. The floor rumbled, shuddering beneath her like thunder rippling through the earth.

The quality of the air changed suddenly. It thinned. The flames around her diminished in their strength as they starved for oxygen. She sucked in a hollow, empty breath, but achieved no relief. Was the ship bleeding? Venting into the vacuum of space?

Wait, she thought. Wait… be still.

It suddenly began to rain. She cautiously lifted her head, looking up into a fine, showering mist, sparkling in the harsh emergency lighting. Her eyes followed the flow of it, because it would go with the current of the air. It shifted to one side, moving in one direction, then it finally seemed to fall straight. The vented had stopped.

The flames around her began to die... reduced to smoldering, black shrapnel.

She could breathe now. She sucked in fine droplets of moisture with a deep inhale and slowly pulled herself up, until she was crawling again.

She pulled the boy’s head onto her lap without thinking. His body shifted with the movement and revealed a slowly expanding pool of blood on the floor. It mingled with droplets of water. The sight of it took Jessica’s breath, sucking the air from her lungs as if the entire room suddenly decompressed without warning. She had seen that bright red color many times before. He was bleeding out in her arms!

They were coming. She could hear noises and men’s voices beyond the debris of the collapsed bulkhead in the distance. Muffled voices shouting to hold on. They were trying to work fast.  
Jessica looked down at the boy’s face. It wasn’t going to be fast enough. He was growing pale and cool in her hands. The slightest hint of blue appeared in his lips. The color growing deeper with each passing second.

Adrenaline numbed her own pain. Her heart was pounding in her ears. She carefully laid the boy’s head down on the floor, moving to his center, scanning him for the source of the bleed. She lifted him, just slightly, only enough to see underneath him.

It was in his back, almost at the base of the spine… shiny, sharp, embedded shrapnel, cutting into tender flesh with each unnecessary movement. It found and nicked a critical blood vessel inside him.

She wracked her weary brain. The mesenteric? The iliac? Could she apply pressure? Stem the bleeding? She tested places on his torso with meticulous hands, pressing into them with great care, wary of causing more damage by shifting the shrapnel in the wrong direction.

Blood gushed from the boy’s wound with each hesitant depression, an indication of what had already leaked into his abdominal space. The boy groaned as she increased the pressure at a point that seemed to slow the bleeding. Her fingers slipped past something slick and hard; the metal embedded in his flesh. She reduced her pressure, but didn’t pull her hands away. It was risky. She could easily push it deeper... perhaps slice the artery completely. That would be the end of him.

Think! Think! Think! Reach into the wound? Find the bleed? Pinch it off directly? Is there enough time? Her mind grasped at tiny, fragile threads.

She had to make a choice she wasn’t ready to make.

These people... She didn’t know who they were.

She could let him die. She could sit back and stare at her reflection in the boy’s expanding pool of blood. When they finally breached the wall of wreckage, she could tell them she did everything she could.

That would be a lie.

What would they do if they knew? she thought, as she looked up at the wall of burned and twisted rubble, separating them from help.

She listened to the muffled noises, the voices of strange men, growing louder with each passing second. What would they do? She looked down at the boy’s face again. The voice in her head was desperate. He’s so young! He’s just too young!

She removed her hand from the pressure point and placed it over the open wound. She cupped her cool, pale fingers into the gush of steaming life. The warm liquid slowly began to fill her palm.

Maybe I’m not strong enough, she thought. I can only hope.

 

* * *

  
The cutting torches suddenly burned white. They all flashed simultaneously, as if they had suddenly received a massive bolus of fuel from the air around them. One of the engineers dropped his torch, taken aback by the phenomena. He stood up from his work on the wreckage, pulling away the face-shield that protected him from the sparks.

“Did you feel that?” He looked around at the others and got his answer. They must have, because everyone else had stopped too.

The Arcadia’s power dipped. A sudden dimming of service lights until only the torches illuminated the corridor. Even the auxiliary power was affected, fluttering eerily to darkness, then flashing to life again.

“What was it?” Another crew member asked. They all glanced around at each other, as if someone among them had the answer. Yet, no words came forth. They stood in silent wonder, watching the lights slowly return.

“Keep moving!” Captain Harlock urged as he dragged a freshly cut piece of sheet metal from the site, his order breaking the stunned silence. “We don’t have much time!”

The dutiful crew complied with his command. They picked up their tools, and quickened their pace.

Something strange, warm, and tingling swept across all of them instantaneously. An electrical charge. A thin, diminutive thread of energy. It seemed to connect them suddenly, briefly. It was almost too fleeting to be realized. Yet, the ghost of it was a faint smell of electricity in the air.

It severed itself just as abruptly. Harlock suddenly felt a strange ache, a regret, in the wake of its absence. It was as if he missed it... and that was a feeling he wasn’t used to. It was not something he usually allowed himself. A connection, then the sentiment of missing it in the aftermath. It clouded the mind, and he didn’t like it.

Harlock paused next to Kei, looking back at the swarm of men positioned over the wreckage. Sparks flying, shadows cast and thrown across damaged walls by the oscillating flames of the torches. “Remember what I said about situational awareness?”

They didn’t have to exchange glances. He knew she felt it too, and she understood priorities had changed. “I’m on it,” Kei replied flatly as she turned on her heel and retreated to the bridge.

Kei was anxious, and worried about Diaba. She would never show it. Although Harlock wanted the information, his request was intended as a piece of mercy. Something to remove her from her vigilant watch, and occupy her mind. He wasn’t sure what they would find. If he could keep her from it somehow…

Harlock clenched his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. The nameless girl was in there with Diaba. Surveillance cameras had caught her, just before the explosion. Her tiny frame clinging to the wall. Harlock recalled their narrow escape from the Mars station. A chill swept through him as he remembered the girl’s words to him.

The shuttle was pulling away from the crumbling remains of the space station. Diaba managed to maneuver the small craft through drifting debris with minimal impact damage, but the steering required made for a rough ride.

The young woman lay strapped in a stretcher, locked into the shuttle wall. Harlock was kneeling next to her, pressing a towel firmly to her leg wound. He was losing the battle against the blood loss. Despite his makeshift tourniquet, hastily conjured from one of his own belts, the wound continued to bleed, bright red and profuse.

He lifted the towel to inspect the gash. It was already soaked. Who would have thought someone so small could have so much in them. He jerked the belt again, trying to pull it tighter until the woman’s delicate fingers touched his arm.

He looked at her face. She was trying to speak. He leaned in, close to her mouth, to hear her.

“Are you an assassin?” the words came forth slowly, in a stifled whisper.

He pulled back from her slightly, his eye meeting hers. Uncertain if he actually heard the word ‘assassin’. At that moment, it seemed strangely foreign to him. He considered her question in silence, because he had no answer.

“You look like you’ve killed before.” He was close enough to feel the faint warmth of her breath on his face.

She was shaking. Shock was setting in. He pulled the blanket closer to her chin, but she grasped his wrist firmly.

“You should kill me…”

The words froze him. He stared at her.

Her eyes looked into his, lucid and strong. “You… need to kill me.”

He pulled away from her insistent grasp. “We’re here to help you,” he finally replied, his voice was gentle, but it had a firmness which matched his determination.

“Help… yourself…” she whispered softly, with a surreal calmness that chilled him. “Loosen it…” The tips of her pale fingers brushed over the belt on her leg, then clawed at it, “It will take only minutes…”

He was always decisive. Yet, he was surprised at himself, at his hesitation, his morbid indecision. He was surprised at the tightness in his chest, evoked by the fading light of her blue eyes.

His eye traced down her frail, trembling form to the bloody mess of her thigh, where only his thick, leather belt retained the pulsing force of her life. He considered her request, because he instinctively respected the choice of sentient beings.

Only for a moment.

Only for the briefest breath of a moment.

The sheen of the brass buckle resisted the viscous red fluid. It yielded the skull and crossbones he knew so well to the starlight, shifting between the shadows of the moving shuttle. The barest glimmer traced its edge, catching his eye, shaking him, reminding him of what he was. He was no assassin…

His eye met hers. “No! Whatever it is,” he said firmly. His words were strong, unyielding to her despair, “You will weather the storm! I will stand with you!”

His words might have been pointless anyway. She had no strength to resist him. She was fading so quickly. She tilted her head, as confusion seemed to set in. It briefly crossed her pained expression. Her eyes traced the hard lines of his face. One last, inquisitive study of him.

Her eyes closed. She went limp. For a moment, he thought she slipped away. He clumsily felt for a pulse through his glove. Nothing! Of course! He ripped the glove away, pressing his bare hand to her delicate neck. The fervent heat of him a stark contrast to her icy skin.

She was so cold. Yet, the smallest glimpse of hope. It was faint, fleeting; a tiny oscillation rippling briefly beneath his fingers.  
“Diaba!” he rasped to the pilot. “Forget the debris! Plow through it! Hurry!”

The guttural roar of the spooling shuttle engines morphed into the high-pitched screech of straining metal. As the metal barrier finally began to break apart with the pull of anxious hands, Harlock felt an overwhelming sense of dread. He couldn’t help but think, by not heeding to the woman’s pleas, he had made a horrible mistake, and Diaba would be the one to pay the price for his moment of weakness.

 

* * *

  
Crewman swarmed into the room. Some of them rushed past the woman and Diaba to the external wall with glowing handheld instruments. They were checking the wall for leaks. Tiny, microscopic points of high pressure, where life-sustaining atmosphere bled into the vacuum of space.

The doctor was with them and knelt down at Diaba’s side. “Is he breathing?” He touched the boy’s neck, searching for a pulse.

The girl nodded. She directed the doctor to the wound in the boy’s back with a motion of her hand.

“Let’s get a stretcher in here!” Doctor Zero shouted, and the command was repeated down the line of men until it passed through the wall of debris and out of earshot.

“Are you hurt?” Harlock was standing behind the woman. She looked up at him, just in time to see Tori, his great, wiry, black bird, squawk and spread his massive, craggily wings to their full length behind Harlock’s head.

In addition to Harlock’s looming position, the bird must have been a startling surprise. Her eyes widened with a shocked gasp. She seemed to muffle a scream by slapping her hand over her mouth. She suddenly shrank from him, nearly falling over herself to back away.

Harlock had already made a quick assessment of the situation in the room, and decided it was entirely too unsafe to linger. At the moment, he had no patience for her apprehension. He heard the negative signals from the instruments in the hands of the crewmembers analyzing the wall. Tiny punctures could easily lead to an explosive decompression at any moment.

No time for proper introductions, he thought.

She was wearing only the thin, white gown from the infirmary. It was soaked, clinging to her pale, bare skin. She might as well have been naked, and she had no protection for her feet. She would have to be carried.

Tori took flight with another, shrill squawk as the Captain pulled his black cloak from his shoulders. The woman’s eyes followed the bird as it ascended. It was just enough distraction to allow Harlock to grab her arm and pull her into the safety of his arms, and his cloak, before she could retreat further. The cloak had the same fire-retardant properties of Harlock’s leather flight suit. It was a useful tool in rescue situations such as these.

She was trembling violently when he lifted her into his arms. Chilled from the water, and probably terrified. Her body was stiff and reluctant against him. She awkwardly held her hands out before her, rather than clinging to his shoulders to support herself; as if that would feign some distance between them.

He carried her through the vast crusade of crewmembers as they sprinted back and forth through the corridor. He stepped carefully over jagged pieces of wreckage on the floor. Holding her tightly to him only once, when he slipped. She jumped in response, throwing a hand about his shoulder until he steadied himself, but she released him, just as quickly.

She was small and light in his arms. He could easily carry her back to the infirmary. However, he took her beyond the fire-doors and through a bulkhead to a side hallway, out of the path of the rushing workers.

He set her down gently, on the floor. She quickly inched back from him, pressing her back against the wall. He saw her wince with the movement.

“Are you hurt?” He reached for the opening of the cloak without thinking, but he stopped when her hands went up before him. They were trembling. She held her palms up to him, in a passive sign to halt him. The creases of her hands were etched with Diaba’s dried blood. “I just need to know if you’re hurt,” he softened his voice, but only slightly.

She shook her head, hesitantly.

“Tell me why you were in there.” He paused, waiting for her reply, but she stared at him, her blue eyes wide, with a kind of chilling uncertainty.

Fear and uncertainty were elements he could use effectively to extract information, but he didn’t particularly enjoy the process. Not when the subject of the interrogation was a traumatized young woman.

Her trembling hands were still suspended between them. He carefully placed his hand over hers and pressed them into her lap. It was a sign he understood her boundary, and respected it. They both withdrew their hands from the ambiguous connection. “Were you wandering around the ship by yourself?” he continued. “Were you looking for something?”

She didn’t answer him. Not even with a movement of her head.

“I realize you’re being cautious. I understand. However, if there is something you think you should tell me, something you think I should know… this would be a good time.”

Her wide eyes shifted slightly, from his good eye to the patch over his right, but her stare did not waver from his face. He had to admit, the intense scrutiny, born from evident fear, made him uncomfortable.

He slowly extended his hand to her face, reaching out to the uneven mass of purple and black encircling her right eye. Her eyes followed his hand suspiciously. He motioned gently to the bruise with his fingers, but did not touch her. “Is this what you’re afraid of?” he inquired softly, and her eyes met his once more. If that look could launch arrows, he was certain he’d be dead by now. He had been in enough fights, and witnessed enough of the aftermath, to know what he was looking at.

Her lips parted, only slightly. She sucked in a trembling breath, as if she might utter something, but nothing came forth. He withdrew his hand and regarded her in silence.

Finally, after a long moment between them, he spoke with firm, but gentle words. “My name is Harlock. I’m the Captain of this ship, the Arcadia. You are under my protection. No one will harm you here. You have my word.”

The doctor and a small entourage rushed by with Diaba on a stretcher. “Mimay!” he called to his most trusted companion, trailing just behind the group. “I have to find out the extent of the damage and to see to the repairs,” he said to her as she came to him. “She doesn’t appear to be injured, but check her if she’ll let you. Make sure she gets back to the infirmary!”

He met the woman’s eyes with one last, direct look before he stood. “Rest. We’re going to talk later.”


	7. Bearings

* * *

  _“The sail, the play of its pulse so like our own lives:_

_so thin and yet so full of life,_

_so noiseless when it labors hardest,_

_so noisy and impatient when least effective.”_

 ~Henry David Thoreau

* * *

  
Harlock was almost relieved. One of the engineers presented him with the laser-cutting tool, blackened and scared from the explosion. The safety was off. An unusual mistake for Diaba. He was usually so meticulous.

The engineer pointed to what little remained of the conduit in the ceiling, split-open into sprawling, jagged fingers of sheet-metal. He remarked on Diaba’s miraculous luck. The ship’s safety protocols engaged, just in time, automatically shutting down the flow through the channel when the pressure dropped.

“It really could have been much worse, Captain!” he said. “That duct runs the length of the ship! We all got lucky.”

“Good design isn’t luck,” Harlock replied softly, as he thoughtfully scrutinized the damage around the room with a critical eye. It was mercifully isolated to one small area of the ship. “It’s just good design.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied. “I’d say she’s definitely designed to withstand stupidity!” He turned, and left the Captain to resume his investigation.

The airlock hatch even held. It might have been considered the weak point in the entire room, but the engineers had yet to find any leaks along its seams. He looked down at the tool in his hand. The entire, costly event was beginning to look like a foolish accident.

From what he could surmise from the surveillance video before the explosion, the girl simply wandered into the area out of curiosity. She was never close enough to the laser to touch it, much less purposely point it at something dangerous.

Mimay re-emphasized her feelings about the girl; the young woman might be harmful to herself, but not to anyone around her. If she wanted to take her own life, there were plenty of less complicated ways on this ship.

Still, it was odd she found her way down to this area. It was not easily accessible from the upper decks, where the infirmary was located. And the timing of it all… Coincidence? Harlock wished he believed in coincidence. He could just write all of this off as an accident, and be done with it.

“We’re still space-worthy, Captain!” Yatteran’s voice shook him from his thoughts. He looked down at the little man, standing beside him. Yatteran pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger as he analyzed the glowing tablet in his hand. “Propulsion, life support, and tactical systems are fine. The conduit has redundancy, of course. The flow was rerouted on the redundant pathway. We have enough inventory on board to finish the repairs, but I’ll want to restock at our next port.”

“What about the antennas? Navigation? Communication?”

“Daiba checked them all while he was out there. I followed what he was doing through the camera in the suit. There was no damage. Three of them were a little lose, but he tightened those, and moved on. We seem capable of receiving, Captain. We’re just not receiving anything right now.”

“I had Kei focused on the data dump from the Mars station, but you can ask for her help if you need it.” He gave the room one more sweeping glance. “What are your thoughts?”

“The kid got cocky,” the little man replied, absently looking through the results on the screen. “A little too confident. It happens.”

Harlock was aware Diaba’s youth and inexperience made him the subject of rash judgements by the crew. He closed his hand around the laser-cutter and lowered it to his side. “Maybe,” he replied absently, more to himself than to Yatteran.

 

* * *

 

Harlock felt the briefest moment of vertigo as he entered the bridge. It was triggered as the fire doors slid silently out of his path. The sudden movement in his field of vision was strangely disorienting. He suspected fatigue was the culprit. He underestimated how the stress of Diaba’s accident had weighed on him. He rested a hand against the tall back of his ornate captain’s chair at the helm to steady himself.

“You know what I know!” the doctor’s exasperated voice came from Kei’s console. Harlock recognized the sound of water running into a metal sink. The doctor was obviously scrubbing up for surgery.

“He’s lost a lot of blood, Kei! I’ll tell you that! I’ve got a volume expander running to bring up his blood pressure! I’m going in to see if I can find the source of the bleed! I’ll call you when I know more!” The intercom cut-off abruptly.

A long silence followed. Harlock could hear a gentle sigh from Kei’s silhouette in the light of her monitor. He watched her shoulders move with the small sound; a slight rise then fall, her head bowing in silence to her clasped hands on the console.

“How is he?” he asked softly.

Kei’s head snapped up in response to his voice, and she looked over her shoulder at him. “Not good. Unstable. Shockey.”

There was more silence between them as she turned back to her monitor. It was just the two of them on the bridge now, and there was so little to say. Any idle hands were focused on the repairs. Even navigation was second to a possible rupture in hull integrity.

Harlock finally eased himself into his captain’s chair, leaning into it with his characteristic slouch. He ached more than usual. So, he adjusted, sat up, and finally leaned on the right armrest. “He’s tough, Kei…”

“He’s an idiot!” she snapped.

Harlock looked at the back of her head, because she couldn’t seem to pull her attention from the screen in front of her to meet his eye. She didn’t seem to want to. He sensed she was reluctant to show her concern, but he wondered if she knew, the tenseness in her words betrayed her.

“If he wasn’t up to it, he shouldn’t have gone! I told him…” Her voice trailed off into another long moment of silence. She shook her head slowly.

Harlock was relieved when she changed the direction of the conversation. He didn’t know what to say to ease her.

“I don’t understand this data, Captain!” She gracefully swiped her hand across her monitor to the tablet at her right. The glowing display followed her whim and suddenly appeared on the tablet. She grabbed the tablet as she stood and turned to him. “Would you look at this?” She brought him the data on the glowing plaque in her hands. He ignored the appraising scan of his features as she approached. “How are you?” she added softly. A hint of concern in her voice. She seemed to recognize an impact on him.

He coughed into his gloved fist to relieve a stubborn itch in his throat before taking the tablet from her. “Tired, I guess.” He blinked his eye to clear the haze from his vision and pondered the lines of code before him. “What am I looking at?”

She pointed to a column. “I’ve broken some of the security on the data. These security protocols are… they’re old, Captain!”

“That’s not unusual. We’ve seen that before, Kei, on backwater planets.”

“No. You don’t understand.” She tapped on the column with her finger, indicating he should look closer. “I’ve never seen security protocols this old, no matter how backwater the planet! These date back before the terra-forming era! This is a time-date stamp, just before the explosion.”

“You can’t be reading this right, Kei…”

He was about to suggest Yatteran take a look at the data, but he glanced at her, because her reply was written on her face, and it said she was convinced she was reading it right. She was convinced, because she had checked it several times before bringing it to him, as she always did.

She was seeking further direction from him, because she simply didn’t know what to do next. She wanted alternatives, because it couldn’t be what it appeared to be. It just couldn’t.

“It would make sense,” Kei spoke softly, almost hesitantly. “Why we haven’t heard the usual chatter over the comms.” She shifted in her position, leaning on the back of the captain’s chair for support.

“The navigation buoys aren’t there! They’re just gone!” he could hear the frustration rising in her voice. She had been wasting time on a fool’s errand, looking for something that wasn’t there. “One failing is a possibility. Two of them failing is rare. Three failing? At the same time?” She didn’t need to say more.

Three navigation buoys failing within the solar system at one time was improbable. They had so many fail-safes, because they defined the inner-planetary shipping lanes.

He stroked his chin calmly, as he often did while he processed. It was now heavy with unshaven shadow, and itchy, like the rest of his face. The result of a very long, trying day. “Kei...” he began.

“Yes, sir.”

“This time-stamp…”

“I know, Captain.”

“You’re saying this is…”

“Yes…” she whispered, allowing him to do the math in his head.

“This is over seven-hundred years old!”

“Yes…” He heard her swallow hard as she prepared to say what they were both thinking. “Perhaps our concern is not where we are…”

“It’s when we are!” Harlock added as he looked up at her, meeting her eyes. “Pull the numbers for the IN-Skip!”

IN-Skip was a coined term, for a type of space warp. It was more advanced, more refined, more predictable, and less damaging to spacecraft than warp drives. Its energy demands were a fraction of that required to complete a space warp. Harlock never completely understood the quantum physics behind the super light speed jumps. This was Tochiro’s sandbox. However, they afforded the Arcadia incredible maneuverability around the known universe.

“Touch that button,” she indicated the glowing figment of a button on the tablet’s screen, because she had anticipated his order once again, and prepared the data before he could ask. She was leading him logically down her path of evidence. Damn, she was good.

Kei was exceptionally trustworthy in information etiquette, and she was loyal to her captain. He was grateful she waited to inform him of her findings until they could speak alone. She was content to be the collector and the consolidator of information, and she was sensitive to presenting him with surprises in front of the crew, if she could help it. It was his job to diplomatically present what he learned to the crew. He knew she didn’t envy him.

The file image opened into an indiscernible collection of tiny colored lines, numbers, and labels. Kei touched the screen with a delicate finger, enlarging an area on the map which illustrated their starting position before the jump, outside the solar system.

Kei touched the screen again, calling up another file. “You’ve seen this before,” Kei began. “Our IN-Skip calculations have pre-determined algorithms designed by Tochiro. They are unique to the Arcadia’s shape and mass. They encompass a minimal area of space just outside her hull. We make our calculations for navigation and input the results into the algorithms. This results in an infinite number of combinations, translating into an infinite number of possible waypoints and destinations. It’s not necessary to make changes to the original algorithms. Yet, the algorithm used for our most recent IN-Skip was…”

“Changed...” Harlock interjected, and he looked up and met Kei’s eyes. “How?”

“The algorithms are secured by a high-level security protocol designed by Tochiro. You tell me,” she said as she pulled another file up on the screen. “The database always archives a login when records are accessed, but in this case…”

“There’s no login record,” the captain suddenly stood from his chair, the tablet in hand. He had heard enough. He turned sharply on his heel and left Kei at the helm.

Kei never said a word as his footsteps marked the growing distance between them. She knew where he was going. She had been hinting at it all along.

It was time to consult with the Arcadia’s forty-second crew member.

 

* * *

   
Rumors sometimes had a basis in truth.

The Arcadia was rumored to be haunted. An unearthly presence wandered her eerie halls, and it wasn’t Mimay. Jurans did not exhibit the human need for regenerative sleep. Crew members grew accustomed to her willowy, iridescent frame wandering gracefully through the Arcadia’s dark corridors. She was a benevolent spirit, watching over them, as she roamed on silent, cat-like feet.

The rumors of a haunting may have begun with her, but it was not where they ended. It was the small, cloaked figure of a man which was sometimes seen out of the corner of a crewman’s eye. Iridescent… Mischievous. A subject for late-night conversations among a crew, sufficiently lubricated with spirits of the alcoholic kind. Rarely were their complaints regarding unexplained events. Although they could be mischievous in nature, they were often helpful in some way.

Tools sometimes disappeared, only to be found again in some implausible location. Lights turned on, or off, by themselves. Glasses moved across tables, and sometimes overturned. Music inexplicably played over the comm system, but it was usually when Harlock and Mimay were struggling to calm Harlock’s fussy infant Goddaughter, Mayu.

Harlock would never admit it, but he was often an unwilling victim of the perpetrator, especially when he had plans to leave the Arcadia on a risky mission. He would awake to find an empty holster on his belt, as he dressed in the morning; his trusty Tochiro-patented, side-arm, nowhere to be found. Harlock would set upon a scavenger hunt throughout his room in search of it, often wasting precious time. He never left the ship without it.

At least, not until the occurrences became too frequent and irritating for Harlock. That was only after Harlock gathered a mental list of predictable hiding places where the weapon was often found. He eventually won this battle of wills. Although the lanky pirate felt practically naked, he finally left the ship without the elegant weapon, carrying only his more cumbersome Gravity Sabre at his side. The mischievous disappearances rapidly diminished in the aftermath, happening only when there was some serious discord to be hashed.

The ship itself moved on its own, more than once, at the captain’s request. It was not uncommon for the Arcadia to chart its own direction. Interventions usually came at the captain’s invitation, after he conceded to relinquish control of the Arcadia. It seemed to be an unwritten rule; a silent understanding between friends.

The unwarranted manipulation of IN-Skip code was something new and frightening. Never had such a drastic change come without Harlock’s knowledge. If the action in question was a purposeful intervention, and not an accident, it was the first time such an event occurred without the captain’s permission.

The algorithms were never designed for time jumps. It was theoretically possible. It was even discussed in theory when Tochiro was still alive. Usually, late at night, after several bottles of wine or sake had been shared between them. It was strange how alcohol could lend clarity and inspiration to the possibilities. It was good for a laugh, because theoretical time travel was factually risky. Tochiro was a brilliant engineer, but he would never endanger the crew or his beloved Arcadia if he wasn’t certain. If Tochiro was certain, Harlock trusted there was a reason for it.

Harlock remembered their pleasant conversations. Their inspired musings about changing things for the better. Tochiro’s desire was to find that moment in history, that fragile point in time, which set mankind on its current apathetic path to hopelessness.

Where did it all begin? When did it all begin? What if that path could be altered? Wouldn’t it be miraculous? Wouldn’t it be magnificent to find that hope that once existed, and restore it to mankind? Wouldn’t that be the crowning achievement to Tochiro’s work?

Harlock found himself smiling. He always did, when he thought of his beloved friend. Tochiro was small in stature; less than half of Harlock’s height. It was always a curious wonder to Harlock, how such a big heart and a big brain could comfortably fit into such a small package.

The heart, and the brain, of the Arcadia was a towering, black mainframe, several stories high, pulsating and glowing with the same, steady rhythm of the human heart. Harlock stood at its base, craning his neck to look up and take in the entirety of its impressive structure. It loomed in the cool darkness of its massive chamber, branches of it outstretched, reaching into the surrounding walls.

It was the source. The beginning of a twisted mesh of conduits, channels, and tubes; a fragile, neural network, reaching to the furthest, most minute points of the ship.

Tochiro loved this strange vestige of artificial intelligence. He spent many an hour communing with it, perfecting it, through various interfaces before his untimely death. Harlock assumed Tochiro was part of it now. His soul, his consciousness, somehow joined with the tiny currents of electricity, flowing continuously through its tangled mires of delicate connections.

Harlock visited this place often, finding solace in the echoing vacancy of the chamber, in the utter darkness of its shadows. It was almost as precious to him as the helm of the ship. He felt closest to his friend here. When decisions weighed heaviest on his shoulders, Harlock could find comfort in the sounds and the vibrations; soft, unexplained replies in electronic chirps and chatter which seemed to coincide with his inquiries.

He placed a firm hand against the metal surface. It was always warm, always vibrating; humming, as if entertaining a melody in the midst of its continuous work. Harlock’s voice broke the meditating silence of the chamber. His words sounded hollow and strange, as they echoed into the surrounding shadows, “If this was intended as a joke, my friend, I’m not laughing…”

He bowed his head, patiently waiting for any sign of a reply.

An alarm blared over the ship-wide intercom. “Captain?” Kei’s voice followed, and it echoed in the blackness. “Mimay is calling for your assistance in the infirmary! She needs help!”

Harlock’s head snapped up. “Mimay!”


	8. Stirring

Sea of Stars – Chapter 8 – Stirring

* * *

 "The sea is everything. It covers seven tenths of the terrestrial globe. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense desert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all sides."  
~Jules Verne

* * *

The ship-wide alarm finally ceased. Thank goodness, Doctor Zero thought. It had become white noise anyway. He had to ignore it. He was simply too busy to respond.

How long has it been? he thought. He glanced at the clock on the wall, but he didn’t remember what time he began. He had been searching for an arterial bleed in Diaba’s abdomen for what seemed like hours. He found plenty of shrapnel along the way; sharp bits, here and there. A few pieces lodged in the intestines and the liver, but no severed vessel.

Diaba’s symptoms were consistent with hypovolemic shock. The boy was slowly responding to the volume expanders and stimulating medications. The amount of blood at the scene of the accident in relation to the time of the explosion lead the doctor to believe he was dealing with a severed artery. However, he simply couldn’t find one! Even the CT scan was inconclusive.

Arteries were tough, fibrous vessels. They didn’t close by themselves! They needed to be clapped-off and carefully stitched. The doctor knew if he resolved to close the wound, without finding the bleed,

Diaba could easily bleed to death in the night.

“Doctor!” Mimay’s soft, but urgent voice over the intercom of the surgical theater nearly put Doctor Zero through the ceiling, he was so intently focused on his task. “We need you!”

“Can it wait?” the doctor yelled from his position at the bedside. “I’m up to my elbows in Diaba’s liver!”

“It’s the girl! She’s burning up! Hot to the touch!”

“What?” the doctor stopped his work, looking up at the intercom. “Is she responsive?”

“No! She won’t wake up!”

“How long has she been like that?”

“I’m not sure!” Mimay sounded frightened. “I brought her clothing, and found her on the floor! It could be since we got her back from the accident!”

“Does she have any injuries? Is she bleeding? Can you move her?” The doctor’s questions came out in rapid-fire refrain.

“No, no, and yes!” Harlock’s voice shot back with equal efficiency. He was further from the intercom. The doctor surmised he was closer to the girl.

The doctor hesitated, working the situation over in his head. Suddenly, “Take her to the shower in the lavatory!”

“What?” Harlock shouted back.

The doctor knew his voice was muffled by his surgical mask. He pulled his bloody hands from Daiba’s abdomen, holding them out before him to maintain his sterile field. He quickly drew closer to the intercom. “The shower!” he shouted. “Lukewarm water! Not cold! Do it now! Hurry! She could lose the baby if the fever is too high for too long!” He bit his tongue after his last sentence.

There was a long pause over the intercom, nothing but the soft hiss of static. “Hello…?” They must have been off to follow his orders. He sighed, then finally went back to his work, reassembling Diaba’s innards. He silently dreaded his next conversation with the captain.

 

* * *

  
Harlock was desperately trying to be careful. Being respectful had gone out the window a while ago. She was terribly strong for someone so small.

It must be adrenaline, he assured himself. He was perfectly capable of holding this little waif still. Unfortunately, she was very slippery and she wriggled.  
Her unconscious protest began the moment the cooling shower hit the flushed, feverish skin of her face. Should have started with her feet, he thought to himself.

She managed to get a hand free and had it pressed firmly against the left side of his face. Using it, with all of her might, as leverage to break free from his arms.

A multitude of expletives ran screaming through his head, but he only uttered a low-key, “owe,” when her hand slipped from his cheek, clipped his nose, and clawed through strands of his damp hair.

With clenched teeth, and a guttural growl, he grabbed her flailing hand from the air and wrapped it back in the tangle of his tight embrace.

It must have been an irritatingly amusing sight. He could see it in the doctor’s eyes when the little man froze, wide-eyed, in the doorway of the lavatory, the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips. Harlock was usually so accomplished at maintaining a stoic, respectable façade.

Harlock was squatting in the shower stall, his back pressed into the corner, struggling with every ounce of his strength to hold the tiny whiff of a girl beneath the stream of water. Somehow, in the skirmish, he became more drenched than the girl reeling in his arms. He glared at the doctor through locks of wet hair clinging to his face.

“One word of this…” Harlock growled to the little man, just before the girl’s hand broke loose and mashed his cheek again.

The doctor seemed to force the smirk from his face, trading it for the best ‘serious medical professional’ expression he could muster. He cleared his throat as he approached Harlock’s uncooperative charge. To Harlock’s relief, the doctor shut off the water before he knelt before them. “She’s fighting! That’s a good sign!”

“Maybe for her!” Harlock reached up and pealed the girl’s hand from his face, just as the doctor was reaching for her.

“Hold her still!” the doctor commanded. “That struggling isn’t helping her temperature!”

Harlock didn’t hide his irritation with the little man’s criticism. He detected the doctor’s effort to suppress another smirk. Harlock adjusted his embrace with the final determination that the girl would submit to his will, whether she liked it or not. Gaining more control, he held her tighter, as the doctor scanned her with his handheld instrument.

She was breathing hard and succumbing to fatigue. Harlock felt the tension fading in her limbs. Her adrenaline-fueled strength was finally diminishing.

“Is she cooling down?” the doctor asked, as his eyes traced the results of the scan on the small monitor in his hand.

Harlock nodded his reply. She was still very warm, but he noticed her skin was cooler than when he first touched her.

The doctor’s brow furrowed. “One hundred and five degrees Fahrenheit, forty point six degrees Celsius. I’ll give her one point elevation for the struggle.” He nodded his head and met Harlock’s eye. “It’s good you found her when you did. Too long at that temp and the proteins in her body start to denature.” He put the scanner down, then removed his stethoscope from his neck and put it in his ears. He pressed the bell to the girl’s abdomen. Repositioning it several times over the wet fabric of the gown, clinging to her skin. “Yeah, I think I hear something, but I’ll need to do an ultrasound when she’s calm.”

They both heard the girl’s voice. She was trying to whisper. Harlock put a hand over her forehead and gently held her head back against his shoulder so they could hear her and see her lips move. She looked up into Harlock’s face, staring hard into his eye.

“I won’t kill anyone for you,” she rasped weakly, but there was a menacing anger in her voice. “I won’t kill anyone…”

It was like blowing out a candle, watching her consciousness fade. One moment, she was a raging flame, burning strong and angry. The next, she was a delicate whiff of smoke, acquiescent to the slightest breath of air. She was limp, lifeless in Harlock’s arms, as if she had never spoken a word.  
 

* * *

  
Harlock could hear the sharp static of the handheld ultrasound from the next room. Despite his determination to remain oblivious, he closed his eye and bowed his head at the unmistakable sound of a fetal heartbeat; strong, loud, and rapid. He felt the tension in his shoulders drain with the cleansing relief of an exhale.

Doctor Zero emerged from the girl’s room, with Mimay behind him. He nodded at Harlock; a positive indication for the fate of the child. “I’ll do a sonogram when she’s awake. I need to do more blood work and test for some pathogens. That fever is a reaction to something.”

“A micro-human! How wonderful!” Mimay clapped her hands together excitedly.

“You should have told me!” Harlock snapped as he glared hard at the doctor.

The doctor picked up a towel from a nearby cart and flung it his way. Harlock caught it from the air, with a defiant whip of his hand. He realized he was making a puddle where he stood.

The doctor was very calm as he walked across the room. He shook his head slowly. “No. No, I don’t think so.” His tone was cool and sensible.

“You should have told me!” Harlock repeated, adding firmness to his tone, as if he had not been heard clearly the first time.

The doctor kept shaking his head as he approached the counter along the wall. “There’s a fundamental principal in the medical profession called doctor-patient confidentiality…”  
“I had the right to know! I’m the captain of this ship!”

The doctor turned to him and met his eye with equal determination. “It’s not called doctor-patient-captain confidentiality! I shouldn’t have disclosed the news without her permission!”

“How could she give her permission? She’s not talking!”

“Exactly!”

“I’m responsible for every soul on board this ship!”

“See?” The doctor’s expression changed as if he suddenly reached an epiphany. He pointed at Harlock to emphasize his words. “That’s just another reason why I didn’t tell you!”

Harlock stared at him. He felt his usual poker-face give way to a trace of confusion, though he tried to restrain the reflex.

“After what she asked of you, I knew you’d react like this!”

Harlock paused. He never liked the idea of someone anticipating his reactions, even the good doctor. “I want to talk to her.”

“No.”

“I have a right to know if she plans to hurt herself aboard my ship!”

“If she really wanted to hurt herself, she’d have done it by now!”

“I understand that! I want to ask her myself! I need to look into her eyes!”

“No!”

“Why?” The question, heavy with frustration, shot out of Harlock before he could think it through. Unusual for him.

The doctor stepped in close to him. He had to crane his neck to look up at Harlock, but he was no less sobering than someone equal to Harlock’s height. “Because she’s frightened, pregnant, and hormonal! In that order! And…” He made a motion to Harlock’s attire. “And you’re just you!” The little man turned his back to his captain and walked to the counter where he began to collect empty packaging for the trash. “Oil and water, my friend. Therapeutic communication is just not your forte.”

“I have to agree with the doctor on that point, Harlock,” Mimay’s soft, whispery voice emerged from the lavatory, where she had set about cleaning the mess which resulted from the struggle with the girl.  
Harlock bowed his head. He stared down at the tiles of the floor as he attempted to formulate his argument. “Doc… I need to know what’s going on in her head.” How was he supposed to explain suspicion without sounding paranoid? “She asked me to take her life…” Harlock was still staring at the floor, but he heard the doctor pause and turn back to him.

“You didn’t know!” Doctor Zero shot back quickly, as if those words could somehow lift the mantle of responsibility from Harlock’s shoulders.  
Harlock shook his head, then looked up to meet the man’s eyes. “Did she? Did she know?”

The doctor was silent. He answered with a shrug. “She made no indication… I told her as soon as I knew. Just more tears.”

“If she was willing to die, and take the child…” Harlock hesitated, uncertain how to present his words tactfully.

“We don’t know that,” the doctor filled the pause with his reply, but Harlock continued.

“That’s a different level of desperation, Doc!” The two men regarded each other in the silence which followed. Harlock took in a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts into diplomatic words. “If she gets serious, someone will try to intervene. You know that. She could hurt one of the crew. You. Mimay. I… I can’t let that happen.”

Mimay appeared in the doorway of the lavatory, leaning against the door frame. “I don’t understand, Harlock. Why would the girl harm herself now? The expectation of a new life on Jura was always a cause for celebration! Does this not constitute a reason for her to live?”

“Circumstances…” Harlock began, but hesitated to find the right words. “The circumstances surrounding… the union…”

To Harlock’s profound relief, the doctor intervened. “We’ve talked about human conception, Mimay.” Mimay acknowledged with a nod. “Circumstances surrounding the conception, or the union between two people, can sometimes be violent… forced…”

Harlock watched Mimay’s smooth, porcelain face, as if it might yield some sign of emotion while she processed the doctor’s words. It had suddenly occurred to Harlock that he, and the willowy Juran, had never broached the subject of sexual violence in their many private conversations in his quarters. Harlock had hoped to protect her from the darker realities of human nature as long as he could, but he realized, like a human child, she would have to learn of them sometime.

Her eyes narrowed slightly; the only sign of her struggle to understand. “You said the union between two people was an act of love… a mutual desire…”

“Ideally,” the doctor responded.

“Oh…” she whispered, as she thoughtfully looked down at the floor. Harlock knew the concept was difficult for her to comprehend. Juran’s were more evolved than humans in many ways. The more he learned about them, the less he liked his own species.

He dreaded the follow-up questions to come. He dreaded being the representative of his people in the eyes of a race which had evolved far beyond the need for such expressions of control or dominance. He wished he knew what she was thinking. He wished he knew how this knowledge would change her perception of humans. How it might change her perception of him, as a human man.

The doctor lowered his head to look at the floor as he crossed his arms. “What do you want to do? Drop her off at our next stop?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“You were the one who brought her aboard!”

“You had to remind me of that?”

“Yes. Yes, I had to remind you of that!”

“Suggestions, Doctor?”

“Give her time. Let her stay. At least until she gets her bearings.”

“This is a battleship, Doctor. Not a pleasure cruise.”

“Yes, I’m often reminded of that by the shrapnel and gunshot wounds.”

The doctor’s sarcasm stung. It had not always been easy for Doctor Zero to adjust to life aboard the Arcadia. He had become a valued crew member, stitching knife wounds, patching laser wounds, icing grazes, and setting broken bones from bar fights. Harlock knew the doctor missed some aspects of the mundane from his family practice on his home-world; the occasional burn from a kitchen stove or a mild respiratory complication.

Harlock buried his face in the towel. He rubbed it hard into his face. It felt good while he reconsidered his approach. He finally ran it over his wet hair and flung the towel over his shoulder. “My point, is that this is a dangerous place for a pregnant girl.”

“And you think dropping her off at some backwater outpost by herself, in her emotional state, would be… better?”

“We could find her family.”

“I get the feeling she’s very much alone.”

“Has she talked to you?”

“She doesn’t have to…”

Harlock analyzed the man’s demeanor. He obviously wasn’t satisfied with Harlock’s solution. “I asked you for suggestions.”

“I haven’t done obstetric work in a long while…”

“I asked you for realistic suggestions!”

“It reminds me of my old days in family practice!”

Harlock glanced at Mimay. The smooth skin of her face was still expressionless, but there was anxious anticipation in her posturing. He sucked in a deep breath, then sighed, allowing his shoulders to slump in an obvious sign of reluctance. He knew this was coming. He was outnumbered, after all. “You mean, can we keep her?” he said to the floor, because he just couldn’t look the doctor in the eye and prepare himself to say no.

“You were the one who…”

“Stop!” Harlock leveled a wide-eyed glare at the man.

“We have a state-of-the-art infirmary and a kitchen that runs 24-7! I can provide excellent, dedicated prenatal care… C’mon! It’ll give me something to do!”

Mimay softly clapped her hands again, “A micro-human aboard the Arcadia! It will be a blessing, Harlock!”

“We are in the business of piracy! Not raising little people!” Harlock pulled the towel from his shoulder and vigorously rubbed his dripping hair with one hand.

“They’re called children, Captain, and I thought we were in the business of piracy for a better future!”

Harlock winced. Blast! His own philosophy used against him. How did that happen?

“If we want a better future, maybe we should be in the business of raising little people! You’ve done just fine with Mayu!” the doctor continued.

Harlock pressed his face into the towel again, muffling an audible groan. When he pulled the towel down and peeked over it, he found the doctor had stepped in closer to him, with crossed arms and a sobering stare.

“Look. I get it. You don’t want to see anything happen to that kid, especially if the girl hurts herself on the Arcadia. It would be much easier to drop her off somewhere, put her into someone else’s hands, and just forget the whole thing. I’m just not sure it’s the right thing.”

“Diaba?” Harlock suddenly changed the subject. The doctor was right. Harlock didn’t like to think about the young being harmed, especially the unborn. He liked discussing it even less.  
The doctor allowed the new direction. “Stable for now. He’s responding to therapy. I couldn’t find the bleed, so I’ll be up with him tonight, in case there’s a change.”

Harlock released another long, contemplative sigh. Why did he even try? He finally realized he lost the argument before it began. It just took him a while to catch up. Was the Arcadia a pirate ship or an arc? The imaginary score Harlock held in his head for an intimidation factor suddenly dropped twenty points. He couldn’t refuse the doctor’s cat, Mi. Mr. Bird, the twenty-pound, black turkey who often found refuge on one of his shoulders, became a permanent, free-roaming resident before he knew it, swiping fish and sake at every turn. Why not an expectant mother?

“She’s your responsibility!” Harlock pointed at Doctor Zero. A grin slowly expanded across the doctor’s face. Harlock ignored it. “Keep her off my bridge. Keep her out of the bowels of the ship! For God’s sake, keep her away from sharp objects!” The doctor nodded knowingly to each demand. “Oh, and when she regains her faculties, she and I are having that talk.”

“What? No!” the doctor exclaimed as Harlock turned toward the exit of the infirmary. He tossed the towel over his shoulder at the little man.

“Yes!” he said loudly over his shoulder, just before the doors slid shut behind him. His air-drying scalp was prickly, so he scratched it with both hands. _I’m drawing a hard line in the sand at goats_ , he thought to himself, as he placed his hands on his hips. _Yeah. Definitely no goats… Unless there’s a BBQ involved._


End file.
